


T'is The Season

by Too_Many_Seeds



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Christmas Cookies, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 11:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17141261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Too_Many_Seeds/pseuds/Too_Many_Seeds
Summary: Rook receives a strange and cryptic message from Jacob Seed at half past nothing-should-be-legally-awake-at-this-hour and finds herself going to the aid of a man who desperately needs a break and a lesson on how to follow a goddamn recipe.





	T'is The Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeekendWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeekendWriter/gifts).



> A gift for the lovely Weekend-Writer! <3

Rook squinted as she peered out of the front window, the road barely visible in the gloom of the death-houred morning. Her jeep rumbled past the No Trespassing sign and the open gate - kind of him to prepare for her - and pulled into the parking lot of the hollow Stone Ridge Chalet. 

The building had been warm and welcoming in her first visit - a callout for some tourist that’d had their wallet “stolen” though it later was revealed to have fallen under their bed - but ever since John Seed had purchased the chalet in the name of his brother, it was silent. The darkness of it being two in the morning likely didn’t help, but seeing such a formidable building stand empty gave it an ominous, foreboding vibe. There was a soft light through the window, the only indicator of anyone’s presence in the otherwise empty chalet. 

Rook stepped out of her jeep, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders to ward off the brisk night air. Her boots crunched on the dirt and rocky road underneath her, rhythmic gratings in the still night. She rounded the building, coming to the entrance and fumbled in the darkness for the doorknob. 

Peering inside the gloom, she felt a beat of trepidation and again questioned her sanity. What the fuck was she doing? She didn’t even know this man that well. 

They’d met not a month past, when she’d had to attend one of his church's cook-outs at the diner - the last one had unfortunately resulted in a scuffle that was not _their_ fault, of course- and upon entering, had come face to chest with the walking wall that was Jacob Seed. Essentially serving as a bodyguard for his younger brother, Jacob Seed wasn’t too impressed at having a police presence, but tolerated her well enough. He was a brusque man, it seemed, though she did manage to sneak a few glances of him giving a softer slight-smile at his brothers when they spoke with him. 

Eventually, as the night had wound down, he’d joined her by the door and they’d gotten to talking. He wasn’t a rude man, necessarily - in fact, he was rather polite - but he never gave more than he needed to. She could understand that, and didn’t press him for more. 

What she didn’t understand was how Jacob Seed had given her his phone number - her colleague Pratt had expressed amazement at the fact that “the old geezer” even knew what a text message was - and the only reason she found out was by the obnoxious ringing of her tone at half past purgatory in the morning. The contact flashing up with the message was a labelled Jacob Seed, and she’d spent a moment shell shocked until she read the message itself, which was even stranger.

_ Come to chalet. Emergency. Bring gloves. _

Not counting that this was one of the first times that she’d spoken to him outside of his church business- and that she definitely didn’t remember receiving his number - she was rather stumped as to what sort of situation called for _that_ brand of message. 

Rook was even more stumped as to why she was actually going along with it. 

She entered the chalet, pushing open the old entry door and standing awkwardly on the threshold. There were hints of the old accommodation services in the gloomy entry room; with untouched pamphlets on a nearby desk and an unplugged answering machine sitting at the base of the staircase. There was a light coming from upstairs, a soft hint of a presence in the otherwise imposing and empty building, and as she stood in the entryway debating whether she should go any further - because  _ fuck  _ this was so stupid and as a police officer, she knew how fucking stupid this was - she heard a sudden curse in the silence. 

“ _ Fuck,  _ fuck, what the fuck?” 

She vaguely was able to recognise the voice of Jacob Seed, and she wondered whether he had company in the brief second before she heard something loud clatter to the floor and he gave a yell. 

Rook’s eyes widened and she rushed up the stairs, going two at a time until she came to the landing. In the kitchen opposite her, she saw Jacob Seed running his hand underneath a stream of tap-water with an abandoned tray laying discarded on the floor beside him. 

“Jacob?” She asked, stepping cautiously into the room. 

He jolted and his head snapped up to see her, hand still held underneath the running water. 

“You came,” he said blankly,  surprised. 

She shook her head in exasperation.

“You said it was an emergency,” Rook replied, scanning the floor and taking in the burnt, crisps of black dotting the floor around the discarded oven tray. “I...how is this an emergency?” She frowned, placing her hands on her hips and trying to push aside some of her confusion and regain some authority. “In fact, how the fuck did you even get my number?” 

He raised an eyebrow and didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. 

“John,” he said, as though it were completely obvious. “He put it in your phone when you weren’t looking last week.” He grimaced, and finally she sensed that there was perhaps some shame there. “Didn’t tell me until later.”

She shook her head, trying to register  _that_ little tidbit of information and making a note to bring up privacy when she next encountered the wannabe-matchmaker that was John Seed.

“So that’s sufficiently creepy.”

He shrugged. 

“That’s John.” 

She took a tentative step across the floor towards him, sidestepping the burnt balls on the ground. Raising an eyebrow, she glanced back up at him. 

“What’s the emergency, Seed?” She asked, crossing her arms across her chest wrapping the shawl tighter around her in the chilled building. 

The imposing man winced and his lip seemed to twitch. Finally, he straightened back up, pushing his shoulders back proudly and shutting off the running water. 

“Y’know how to bake?” Jacob asked, with all the tact of a lumbering bear.

She blinked. 

“Do I know...how to  _ bake _ ?” She repeated, frowning at him. 

He sighed, pushing himself away from the sink and kneeling down at the side of the fallen tray, gathering it up with a tea towel and dropping it haphazardly back on the oven stove-top. 

“I don’t know how,” he told her, leaning against the bench and watching her carefully. “My brother wants cookies. I don’t know how to  _ fucking  _ make them.” 

Rook shook her head in wonder, staring down at one of the closest burnt crisps that - oh dear god, they were supposed to be  _ cookies _ .

“Why don’t you just  _ tell  _ him then?” She asked, shrugging. 

He stiffened, and she wondered if she’d something wrong; pressed a certain button that perhaps that she wasn’t meant to know about. But rather than close up, he hummed in his throat; the sound loud in the otherwise deserted building. 

“John...doesn’t remember much of me from our childhood,” Jacob explained, the words slow and controlled. She nodded, remembering hearing from one of the local busibodies that the siblings that headed the local religious ~~cult~~ _church_ had quite the age difference and that the eldest - Jacob - had enlisted quite young. The man was tapping against the bench, a soft, rhythmic beat in the stillness. “He says one of the only memories he has of me is a day where I baked cookies for him.” 

Rook tilted her head, trying to imagine the mountain of a man in front of her as a young child; had he been a group of gangly legs, a lanky and lean figure or even a stocky boy that everyone had picked for a fighter from an early age? Somehow, she figured that even Jacob Seed did not emerge from the womb wielding an obnoxiously sized rifle in his hands.

“If you baked them before, then what’s the issue?” Rook asked, pressing on and firmly pushing away the strange image of a full, red-bearded baby from her mind. 

“He’s wrong; I never baked those cookies,” Jacob said, grimacing with a downturn of his mouth. “Next door neighbour did.” There was an almost nasty twist to his lips. “Wanted to do her good deed for the day, I guess...Give the poor Seed boys something nice before patting their heads and sending them home.” 

Oh, Rook wasn’t touching that with a ten-foot pole. Not tonight, at least; there was a tension in his shoulders and something like a warning in his eyes that made her suspect any attempts of prying might make him close off in an instant. The curious thing that she probably should have been wondering more about was  _ why  _ she even wanted to keep talking to him. She did not know him well, in fact she was rather confused as to why he was telling her any of this; these things were not the conversation topics of amicable acquaintances. 

“Why...uh, why don’t you tell him?” Rook asked, kneeling down and busying herself with picking up one of the blackened husks of a cookie. “Would he really mind that much?” 

She winced at the words and how insensitive they must have sounded; discovering one of your sole memories of an older sibling might not be accurate could absolutely be upsetting. Thankfully, Jacob didn't seem to be bothered by it. 

“If nothing else, I’m giving him this,” Jacob replied, voice firm but a distant sort of softness about it. “What Johnny wants for Christmas, he’ll be getting.” 

There was a beat of silence, and Rook stood back up, making her way over to the nearby trashcan and tossing the blackened husks inside the bag. She brushed her hands against her pants and then whirled back to face him. 

“Look, I haven’t made cookies since I was in middle school,” Rook said, grimacing over the infamous Oven Debacle that had had her banned from the school kitchens, “but I’m sure it can’t be that difficult.” 

His raised eyebrow didn’t promote much confidence, but she still held her head up high as she joined him by the bench. Her shawl was tossed to the side - the warmth of the nearby oven being enough for the time being - and she read through the simple recipe on the countertop. 

“It said twenty minutes,” Jacob said, a hint of defensiveness in his voice as she reached the end of the paper. “It was twenty minutes.” 

“You’ve got the oven blaring, Jacob,” Rook replied, lip twitching as she fiddled with the nobs to bring the oven back down to the appropriate temperature. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“If it’s hotter, it’ll cook quicker,” the man shrugged, staring down at her as though it were obvious. “It was efficient.” 

“Yeah? And how’d that turn out for you?” She asked, giving the discarded tray a pointed stare. 

He fell silent, and let her make the preparations. 

They worked through the recipe -  _ word by word  _ this time; no shortcuts allowed. When the batch was finally put into the oven, Rook wouldn’t even let him take the food bowl to the sink. 

“Absolutely _not_ , you heathen!” She gasped, tugging the bowl away from him with a scandalised expression. 

He jerked back slightly, surprised at her aggressive outburst and then scowled at her. 

“What’s your issue?” Jacob shook his head, leaning back against the bench and watching her carefully - not entirely sure what to expect. 

“You don’t just  _ wash  _ the cookie bowl,” Rook answered, practically skipping over towards the nearby drawer and pulling out a spoon. She sidled up alongside him, grinning and hoisting herself up onto the bench, bowl placed like a prize in her lap. “You have to  _ enjoy  _ it.” 

She kicked her heel against the wooden cabinets rhythmically as she scooped up a healthy dollop of unused cookie dough and plopped it into her mouth. She sighed around the spoon, savouring the taste of the forbidden fruit. 

Jacob hadn’t moved, still watching watching her and when she opened her eyes to meet his gaze, she did see a flash of amusement in his expression. 

“Thought this shit gives you salmonella,” he said, staring down at the rest of the unused batch in her lap. 

In a startling display of maturity, she poked her tongue out at him.

“Think I’m afraid of a fucking salmon?” Rook sneered, and then giggled when she saw his deadpan reaction to her terrible pun. “ _Relax_ , I know what it is, I’ve just always wanted to make that joke.” 

“Hilarious,” Jacob replied flatly, and then reached out towards her. 

Rook stiffened as he placed his hand on her knee, the movement sudden and much more forward than she expected of him, but when she glanced at his eyes, she saw they were completely trained on the bowl in her lap. His fingers twitched up towards it, and she blinked, rather surprised that he wasn’t simply taking it from her. 

“It’s okay,” Rook said, and nudged the bowl slightly towards him. “This was a team effort; you get your share of the spoils.” 

He barked out a laugh, and then reached out to wrap his fingers around the spoon; dwarfing her own hand and making her nearly shiver with how warm he was. 

“That so?” He said, guiding both of their hands down to gather another scoop of the dough and she watched with a hooded gaze as he brought the spoon to his mouth, humming contentedly at the taste of the batch. She could feel the rush of his warm breath against the skin of her hands, making a domino effect of goosebumps rise on her arm. “What sort of spoils am I being offered?” 

He’d turned to face her, and her knee was digging into his hip bone as he crowded her against the bench, and she was able to feel the warmth radiating off of him - the man must have been something of a human furnace. Her eyes flickered up to meet his as he released her hand, and there was a heaviness to his gaze, something strong and utterly hungry. 

A fierce blush rose to her cheeks and her eyes widened.

“Oh, uh...I uhh, thought maybe going halves on the cookie dough, to be honest,” she stammered out, but her nervousness didn’t stop a grin from tugging at her lips as she spread her legs and allowed him to slot in between them. “Unless... you don’t like it raw.” 

This made him laugh as he set the bowl of dough to the side and tugged her hips forward until she was flush against him, thighs clinging to either side of his waist. 

“Oh, honey,” Jacob murmured, fingers toying with the hem of her jeans and grinning, flashing a hint of canine, “Raw’s my speciality.” 

He certainly proved it; fucking her over the bench in what she imagined was not quite a prime example of the recreational activities that the original owners of the chalet had had in mind. Not that she minded; she was more preoccupied with how wide she was being stretched and how every rock of his hips seemed to brush against the most sensitive spots inside her. 

It was only when she came around him, milking him and whining so prettily into the crook of his neck like a good girl, that the alarm of the oven in the background made him remember the cookies. 

They’d opened the oven door to a blast of hot air and smoke. 

“I mean…” Rook poked at one of the cookies, and bit her lip. Her shirt was still open, breasts bared and she hadn’t bothered to put on her jeans again, instead standing half naked in the kitchen with a ridiculous oven mitt on her hand. “If we cut off the edges, nobody will be able to tell the difference!” 

“They’re burnt,” Jacob replied, sighing. “They’ll know they’re burnt.” 

Rook pursed her lips. 

“We’ll just cut a  _ lot  _ off,” she said, already scraping the cookies off the tray and preparing to do just that. “Then, I mean...maybe they’ll taste burnt, but everybody will be too polite to say anything!” 

He raised his eyebrows, thoroughly unconvinced, but allowed her to have her way. Hell, she’d gotten him this far, he might as well give her the benefit of the doubt in this too. Besides, it wasn’t like he was planning on going (and suffering) alone to his Christmas Dinner the next day. Something told him that he’d be getting his own Deputy for a date. 

Perhaps Jacob would come to regret that decision, however, when she handed John and Faith the bowl of cookies the following day and promptly blurted out: “Here’s the sex cookies!” 

_ Well,  _ Jacob thought, already feeling the laser point judgemental stare of Joseph on the back of his skull,  _ at least it’s not Salmonella.  _

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I...really wanted to title this thing "Sex Cookies" ...  
> Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays!! <3 <3 <3


End file.
